


The Weight of a Name

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Price of Your Heart [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate universe - Mafia, Consequences, Devious America, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Little bit of FACE, M/M, Organized Crime, Referenced at least, Running Away, RusAme, Ruthless England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: Father & son meet after five years of separation and estrangement.  And Alfred’s not exactly happy with what his father wants from him.  He knew he should’ve stayed missing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I half wrote this while listening to Mirrors by Natalia Kills and the other half while listening to Not Afraid Anymore by Halsey from the Fifty Shades Darker soundtrack. Halsey’s voice…oh my god. The melody just hit it perfectly for me to finish up this piece…I have absolutely no idea as to why.

            The hotel was posh and lustrous, with velvet brocade curtains, marble flooring, and chandeliers practically _dripping_ with crystals and diamonds. It was a classy elegancy that was unmistakably wealthy, undoubtedly for the rich, elitist crowd that traipsed through its hallways. Alfred felt his gut churn and he became almost physically sick at the sight of it all. Memories flashed through his mind, indistinct and unforgettable all the same, as the soft tap of his dress shoes echoed in the screaming confines of his mind. His thoughts threw themselves into a vicious tornado of doubt, tumbling over each other like old tumbleweeds.

            Even Ivan’s silent, sturdy presence at his side couldn’t drown out the aura of _presence_ the hotel gave off, and it swept him out of his own consciousness, drowning him unforgivably, impassively. The suit he was wearing – sleek navy against almost glowing tan – wrapped around him comfortably, but in that moment, he felt like he’d been caught up in a well-worn net dragging its trophy catch up to the surface. His fingers twitched as he yearned to reach over the small distance between he and his lover and twine their fingers together; to clench his hand in the other’s larger one and receive a reassuring squeeze back, calming him wordlessly as the other had always been able to do. But they’d decided to come in together – noticeably a couple, with next to nothing of space between them – without touching each other; the intimacy of contact would deliver too much information into the arms of the very last person they wanted to have it.

            He bit his lip as they reached the front desk, and Ivan began to address the young woman working behind the counter. His whole body ached with the desire to do _something_ ; ached with the restraints that his surroundings and his company saddled him with even though the majority of them had no clue who he was. His knuckles throbbed when he remembered the harsh sting of a wooden ruler coming down harshly, punishingly, whenever he made a mistake – a _faux-pax_ – that his father took particular offence to. The glass skylight suddenly seemed too close, too dark, and the people were too _close_ …

            “ _Dorogoy_ ,” Ivan’s voice echoed in his mind, less than a foot away from him, and he felt the arm settle briefly around his waist as he was tugged away from the line of people waiting to check in. He blinked once, and Ivan faded into view. The ceiling had returned to normal and the people were going about their daily business. His suit wasn’t strangling him, the drapes weren’t oppressive, but…

            He brushed curled his fingers against his palm, brushed his thumb over the knuckles, and he could feel Ivan releasing him.

            “I’m alright,” he said under his breath, and he caught the glimmer of concern in violet eyes. Ivan only nodded though, knowing how much they risked in revealing before they even made it to the meeting, and directed him silently towards the elevator. But his eyes were warm and focused on him, and he could feel some of the tension in his body easing in wake of his lover’s concern.

            They slid into the elevator, and Ivan gave the lift manager their room number. He caught the swivel of a camera turning his way, glancing into its depths for a split second, before the golden tinted elevator doors clicked closed.

            He swallowed unobtrusively, and hoped the sudden fist he’d made had gone unnoticed. Well, at least he’d been right.

            They were expected.

            The elevator opened up to the ever so cliché penthouse suite, and Ivan handed over their access card for the man to swipe in order to gain entrance. They stepped out gracefully, and the doors closed almost silently behind them, leaving them standing at the end of a long corridor, leading to one imposing set of doors at the end. He could feel his heart rate increase, but Ivan moved closer – until the only space between them was filled by the soft rustling of their clothes – and he could breathe. He felt his determination rise, firming in his core; his father was just past those doors and he couldn’t risk backing out now.

            The more pessimistic side of his brain commented that his father would find him _anyways_ , so what was the point in running away now? He wouldn’t even make it down to the lobby before they caught him.

            So before he could loose that shaky grasp on his confidence – _what happened to the kid who rugby tackled an armed gunman who’d had two other armed assailants as backup?_ – he strode down the hallway, only vaguely noticing Ivan matching him stride for long stride, swiped his access card through the security port, and pushed the door open carelessly.

            Green eyes caught his from across the room and the world froze. He could almost feel the breath crystallizing in his lungs, his throat closing up from the sheer amount of dread that threatened to pull him under when he locked eyes with that caustic, possessive gaze. But still he strode forward, nearly hesitating when one of his father’s standard retinue – draped in so much black he’d nearly missed them blending into the walls where the blackout curtains were drawn over, presumably, the floor-to-ceiling window wall – stopped Ivan in his tracks, blocking him from continuing forwards. But he moved forward until he was standing feet away from the sitting patriarch of his family, who rose to his feet slowly, eyes never leaving stormy blue.

            In terms of presence, his father effortlessly overshadowed them all, and their slight height difference was negligible when the elder man drew himself up, casting his aura and his sheer presence around them all like a pall; a cloud of plague spreading outwards, gobbling down all it could find and seizing them gleefully for its own.

            He didn’t even realize the man had moved until he found himself on his knees, a single gloved hand releasing his tie to grip his chin the only clue as to how he’d stumbled into this position. He bit down on his lip when he felt the angry strength in that grip, holding him still. He tried to look down, look _away_ , his mind _screaming_ its outrage all the while, but his father’s grip was like vice, and his chin tilted up so that he couldn’t avoid those glaring green eyes.

            “So,” the voice was firm but raspy with well-suppressed fury, and he nearly gulped, “the prodigal returned. I was beginning to think I would have to find you the hard way.”

            In a split second his rising anxiety and latent fear shot into outrage and fury, and he knew the change was reflected in his eyes – _damn_ his inability to keep his heart off of his sleeve around his family – but he couldn’t say a thing. His father’s grip was _bruising_ , and he was well aware of the damage that kind of pressure could do to his jaw if the man kept up with it for much longer.

            He could feel Ivan’s worried gaze burning against the back of his head, but there was nothing the other man could actually do. Green eyes bore into him a moment longer before his chin was released and he was snapped at to “Get up.”

            He did so, feeling infuriatingly like the insecure fourteen-year-old who’d almost lived for the few times his father would pay attention to him in a way that _wasn’t_ trying to marry him off to better their connections or yelling at him.

            They were directed to the three armchairs by the fire, one noticeably the head chair. It was a nice, wingback affair with deep crimson stained upholstery and his father settled into that one with an easy grace, crossing his ankles in front of him as he took a glass of whisky from the server who was attending them. The other two were oddly placed. One was near enough to the wingback to be within each other’s space, while the other was placed further out, an almost observer’s position. Without a loveseat, it was blatantly clear that they wouldn’t be able to sit together, and as Ivan was ushered into one of the two, his decision was taken out of his hands. He could feel his father’s eyes boring into him as he settled, reluctantly, into the armchair closest to his father, well within easy reach just over the coffee table.

            This, amongst many other things, he hadn’t missed. Power plays were the bread and butter of his family meals. Not a single one would pass without some sort of dynamics shifting. His father always remarked that it kept the mind sharp, and though that was true, it also made him infinitely more paranoid than he needed to be.

            Green eyes watched him still, caustic and burning, and he despite the courage he’d used to walk in and face the man, he struggled to meet those eyes.

            “Now,” Arthur Kirkland began, eyes never leaving him, “I wonder, what has brought my runaway child back to me?”

            And just to prove he’d never learned anything at his father’s mandatory etiquette lessons, he blurted, “We’re getting married!” and watched his father’s eyes go forebodingly dark with something akin to horrified fascination bubbling in his heart.

            And then backtracked, furiously.

            “We’re…uh, not yet! Um…but, we’re thinking about it,” he stammered, wondering where all of his composure went, “only, Ivan’s part of the Underground, and…and so am I,” he added on reluctantly, noticing how his father’s verdant eyes lit up, pleased at the reluctant admission.

            “You need my permission,” the man cut in, across the potential babble, and Alfred nodded. Ivan had no room to say a thing, but then again, this wasn’t a battle he was supposed to fight, no matter how much he wanted to.

            “And what makes you think that _you_ , you stubborn, arrogant, wayward child of mine, that I would _agree_ to giving your hand away?” His father’s eyes were uncompromising and imposing still, “That you have that right to choose after you fled?”

            “You have to at least _consider_ it, Father,” he argued fiercely, eyes narrowing in the anger thrumming through him as he felt the fear slip away, not realizing his slip of tongue. Ivan had, though, as had Arthur, who felt something settle in the vicious, possessive monster that had drawn itself up when its wayward child had appeared before it.

            “Do I, truly? I don’t even have to listen to your case, my child,” Arthur said, voice dangerously soft, green eyes flashing in a way that rarely ever meant anything good. “You are _my son_ , my youngest son, and you _ran away_. Just because you’re over age, you’ve changed your name, and lived outside my protection for five years, doesn’t change that fact. You’d be wise to listen.”

            Alfred grit his teeth, mouth snapping shut to withhold the blistering retort that had been on the tip of his tongue, and sat back down in the cozy armchair that suddenly felt more confining than comfortable. Ivan watched them both impassively, but when violet orbs landed on him, they seemed to burn with something entirely familiar, yet inexplicable. There was a soft light of warning in his eyes, not to push his father too far. The man was right, within the laws of their world; Arthur had been wronged by his child’s actions, and was fully entitled to take out recompense.

            So he bit his lip as his father leaned over, grasping his chin in a familiar vice grip before pulling him close, inspecting him with critical eyes. And he was thrown back to every fancy part – every alliance meeting, every match up, every suitor that had ever been brought before him with his father’s favor – that he’d been forced to go to, where his father expected nothing but the best from him.

            His chin was released, and the memories followed suit. His father nodded sharply – an assumption that his behavior would return to compliance and Arthur would not have to enact any form of his threats – before returning to his relaxed, lazily predatory position. But green eyes studied him still, critical and caustic in their gaze.

            “If you want to get married,” his father said abruptly, reengaging in the original reason for this meeting, “you will proceed with our traditions.” There was steel in his tone, as there had been before, only this time, Alfred remained quiet as his father went on. “You will have, at the minimum, a year long courtship, and you will remain in _my_ custody for the entire duration.”

            His eyes were flint sharp as were his words, and they pinned Alfred in place with that _look_ as the elder considered him.

            “You can complete your degree,” he said, after a moment of almost crushing silence, and Alfred felt a powerful thread of relief burn deep in his veins, despite the slight suspicion at how his father had known he was pursuing a degree, “you’ll fulfill your scholarship, and then, you’ll return to Kirkland Manor.”

            There was another pause, softer, more foreboding than the others, and his father said, almost casually, “We’ll submit the paperwork to begin the process to return your surname to the clan name and address your security once the meeting concludes,” and Alfred felt his blood freeze.

            “Excuse me?” he said, with halting, almost non-existent politeness that had nearly escaped him; there were many reasons he’d changed his surname once he’d fled. One, of course, had been to keep his father’s searchers away, to hide from suspicion; but the other had been to honor his mother. He’s taken Jones because that had been her original surname, before she’d gone undercover. Before she’d immersed herself in the underground in hopes of tracking a terrorist cell for the government she worked for. Before she’d had drunken sex with one of the Underworld’s most powerful powerhouses and conceived a child, who’d be taken from her later on.

            Before he’d been a Kirkland, he’d been a Jones, and it had only been due to that grace he’d ever been able to claim his citizenship and his life an ocean away from his overly controlling father.

            His father’s gaze was sharp, predatory and possessive, just as it had been the day he’d met the man when he’d been four years old, and he could feel the weight of that branding – of that name, _his_ name, Kirkland – settling into his bones, imprinting itself on his skin; a stamp of ownership that could never be washed away.

            But _oh_ , how he’d _tried_.

            “I made myself quite clear, Alfred,” the man’s voice, silk smooth and dangerous, warned him against another attempt at speaking out, “You will retake the family name. When you get married, you will take your husband’s name. It will be, as all marriages are in our family, an mutually beneficial arrangement between two clans.” Only, that hadn’t been what Ivan and Alfred had planned.

            Ivan knew and respected Alfred’s dedication to his late mother, who’d given everything she had to protect her only son. The first time they broached the topic of marriage on one of their early dates, Alfred had admitted that if he ever got married, he would hyphenate his name, to respect his mother, to keep his own identity, and bring in his spouse into his life. But both the young men were well aware it was not at all traditional in most weddings between the different _families_ in the underground. Ivan had been prepared to fight his family on that issue.

            Arthur wouldn’t even allow the thought of it. He hadn’t even let them speak of it.

            He almost bit out a denial, knowing his glare had gone nova and his father had a very clear idea of how he thought of _that_ particular condition, but even his glare froze under the almost _demonic_ look his father shot him. Hating himself just a little bit more for slipping back into the old habits from his teenage years, he bit back his vicious comment, and let his father continue. Ivan hadn’t yet said a word.

            The almost malicious triumph in his father’s eyes _burned_ against his soul.

* * *

            “I’m sorry, _dorogoy_ ,” Ivan murmured to him later, after they’d retreated to the hotel room they’d been staying in two streets and a city away, tucked in each other’s warm embrace and relaxing. He could feel the breath of Ivan’s sigh, warm and regretful against the shell of his ear, but nonetheless it stirred the churning heat in the back of his gut as if it hadn’t just been satisfied. Then the topic itself came to bear, and the heat vanished into a whirl of cold that thinking of his father brought on. He sighed.

            “You have nothing to be sorry for, Vanya,” he said softly, curling himself closer to his lover’s warmth in hope of chasing away the chill, settling his head in the hollow beneath the taller man’s chin. “It’s not your fault.”

            He could practically _see_ the guilt eating at his lover, and bit back another sigh, this one of frustration.

            “I was the one who called your father,” the elder man said, voice small, arms tightening around his younger lover, pulling him ever closer as if trying to ensure he couldn’t leave. Alfred snuggled closer of his own accord; closeness had always helped them mesh out their issues, and it always comforted the violet-eyed heir. The truth rung, unabashed, between the two of them, and he sighed.

            “It was inevitable,” he said, mind flashing back to blood glowing scarlet in the midnight darkness when the moon gleamed down upon a scene he would never be able to forget. He felt his hands clench, remembering the feel of dagger sharp knives in sweaty, out-of-practice palms before he _threw_ , knowing it would hit, seeing strong shoulders slump slightly in relief mixed with terror when he’d been exposed by the one he hadn’t seen coming. “If you didn’t know, and we married still, he would’ve found out. Especially since you run in the same circle…” He bit back the rest of what he wanted to say, knowing it would be too bitter to assuage his lover of his guilt. Though some part of him balked at holding back his tongue, the rest of him sighed.

            It wasn’t Ivan’s fault that he happened to embody everything he’d been running from since he’d escaped his father’s watchful eye. Sometimes he wondered if life liked playing with him. It was the ultimate irony that he’d fallen in love with the exact type of man that his father would’ve forced him to marry had he stayed.

            Only, Ivan loved _him_ , not his money, not his connections, and not his name. Ivan Braginsky loved Alfred F. Jones, just as Alfred F. Jones loved him. Until this afternoon, he’d never ever met Alfred Kirkland. And when he thinks of the constantly paranoid, soft-spoken, easily subdued teenager that he’d been – when the loud, obnoxious, questioning child he truly was had been deemed unacceptable – he was glad for it.

            “It would’ve been worse then,” Ivan agreed, bringing Alfred back to their conversation, drawing him from heavy thoughts he’d never wanted to have again. “He’d have been slighted in the eyes of the underworld. We’d have married without getting his permission – it would’ve insulted him, and I do not like to think of what he would have done to get you back. Not with the amount of power at his disposal.”

            Indeed, the British Empire had stretched across more than three continents at its peak of power, and when it had slowly fallen, its underworld had _not_. Any fool who challenged his father was a glutton for punishment.

            Absently, he wondered what that said about him, what the _world_ said about him. He knew what they _called_ him: the little Kirkland Prince, precocious, brilliant, and beautiful; it had been a title even his brother – the heir to his father’s vast empire – had not inherited. The Prize, when he’d grown older, became subject to his father’s greed and when the world saw the value of adding Kirkland’s treasured spare to their hoard, becoming a part of the underworld’s most powerful family by extension. The Runaway, whispered in hushed tones when he’d grown bold enough to enact a long-hidden plan, the first to successfully elude his own father for so many years; The Runaway Prince, whispered with reverence mixed with awe amongst the lower families and workers, while spoken with disdain and annoyance amongst his father’s elite.

            In a world where he’d grown up with everyone around him knowing his name, becoming Alfred F. Jones had been more than just a safety measure; it had been a rebirth.

            He could no more go back to being Alfred Kirkland than he could out drink Ivan.

            “We knew we would have to wait,” he said heavily, curling himself closer – if that was even possible – relishing in the lack of barriers between the two of them. “At least we have time together while I finish my degree, even if there’ll be watchers. That’ll take a year, at least. I’d be 25 when we get married, that’s okay with me.” He tipped his head back to meet the concerned violets of his lover, “Is it okay with you?” he added softly.

            Ivan was two years older than him – which had made their relationship a scandalous secret when they’d first started dating and he’d only been 17 – but he was well aware that he was the longest relationship that the man could claim. It was likewise true for himself, and he knew Ivan took a rather possessive pride in being his first in many of their relationship milestones. But Ivan had been talking of marriage for over a year, and it had only been Alfred’s persistence in his studies that had Ivan putting off the actual proposal. And now, because of Alfred’s actions – _Alfred_ ’s father, _Alfred’s_ clan and their stupid rules and traditions – their marriage would be delayed even more.

            If his father and his family’s _tradition_ (read: revenge) cost him his relationship with Ivan, he would wreak merry hell across his father’s empire. It would be nonexistent when he was done (and, consequently, so would he).

            “I have waited this long,” his lover interrupted his increasingly destructive thoughts reassuringly, “another two years will not be long when I know, at the end of it, I will have you with me. And your family will not be able to interfere, then.” He felt himself relaxing – _when had he tensed up? –_ at that admission, felt Ivan’s arms grip him tightly, possessively, as he sunk into his embrace.

            “Then we’ll wait,” he sighed, leaning up to press a loving kiss against his lover’s – _fiancé, husband-to-be, the love of his life, everything he was_ – lips, unsurprised when the violet-eyed Russian deepened the kiss passionately, languidly, until the only time they separated was for the breath they’d been deprived of.

            A hand moved from where it had been wrapped around his waist, trailing down his slightly ticklish sides – earning a light giggle from him and a lip-twitch from his lover – to cup his rear possessively. The hand on his ass kneaded the firm muscle and he hummed as he hooked his leg around his lover’s waist and _pushed_. He almost laughed at the soft huff of surprise Ivan gave when he realized he’d been splayed on his back with Alfred straddling him. The hand on his ass clenched, then slapped him lightly, and he did laugh then, breaking their fluid kiss, eyes shining.

            “We have to wait for that,” he drawled, a grin curving his lips, “but there’s nothing he can do that’ll make us wait for _this_ ,” he gestured to where their bodies met, un-joined but still connected, and he felt the curl of a familiar heat burn low in his gut as a feral, wicked smirk curved Ivan’s lips.

            Ivan laughed and reached for him in the same breath, and he shoved his vicious, depressing thoughts away in the name of embracing his lover.

            At the end of the day, he’d still be Alfred; Ivan’s Alfred, just as his love would still be Alfred’s Ivan. And if his father thought he could change _that_ …

            His eyes almost glowed in the darkness, blue hellfire that gleamed brightly and proudly, unabashed and unashamed; the crown jewel inimitable amongst amber and verdant flames.

            _He’d rip his father’s precious empire apart._

            He _was_ still a Kirkland, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> So, believe it or not, the prequel to this was actually supposed to be the first part of the series - where the scene Alfred is remembering which brought them to this point happens - but this was the one I finished writing first. And I really wanted to get this out there. I also kinda want to know what the audience is for fics like these. I know I was really intense with Arthur - he's ruthless, uncompromising, and doesn't quite know the extents to which Alfred will go to to preserve himself and his life - with good reasoning though. And Alfred's at the edge of his tether, ready to snap. And if Arthur pushes...well, I don't think he'll want to be on that end when it does.  
> But the prequel is actually more of a RusAme focus than this one is - this one tends to revolve around the family relationship, and establishing exactly what is going to happen. And trust me, there will be a sequel to this. I'm not gonna leave y'all hanging. I just...have to come up with it first.


End file.
